


Smoke and Leather

by Caffinated_Story



Series: Spokes and Ink [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Biker AU, Gen, Human Names
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-24
Updated: 2013-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-16 01:06:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/856012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caffinated_Story/pseuds/Caffinated_Story
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Berwald is living a rather quiet life despite his violent past.<br/>Fixing bikes and puttering around with motors is all he could ever want to do; but the appearance of a blonde man sets his whole life aflame, and soon his old life is coming back to haunt him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ignition

Berwald stretched his arms above his head and sighed in contentment when his spine cracked.  
Wiping some oil onto his already dirty jeans, he started picking up his tools. Each and every one had it’s own place; and Berwald insisted to himself that they should be back where they belonged before he returned home.  
Not that home was far away. He lived in a rather large and spacious flat above his workshop; but none the less. A tidy workplace made life so much easier.

 

Just as he’d hung up the last spanner and tidied away the few nuts and bolts from the floor a rapid tapping sound came from the garage door.  
Rubbing his hand together in a last minute effort to get rid of the oil he slowly opened the small side door to the garage.

“Closed for the night,” He grumbled to the man outside his door.

“Well this is really important so I’d love it if you let me in,” a blonde and smiling man beamed up at him, a hand-gun in his hand pointed directly at Berwald’s chest.

Immediately his hands rose above his head; he had seen enough guns in his past to know exactly how much damage one of those could do to him at such a close range.  
“Man of few words, I like that,” the gun man chuckled, nudging Berwald to move with the tip of the gun.

He stepped back and let the shorter man follow him. Berwald took deep breaths, but otherwise remained calm. He knew what sudden movements would result in; a large gaping hole in the back and front of his skull.  
It was a sight Berwald had seen far too often.

“I have no intentions of being involved with a gang member,” he grumbled

“Who said I was a member of a gang?” the blonde laughed and pressed the gun against Berwald’s spine.  
“Just a hunch,” Berwald muttered.

The blonde laughed heartedly and continued to commandeered Berwald into the garage.  
“Take a little seat buddy,” he chirped and nudged Berwald towards the small wooden chair next to a work bench full of tools.

Much to his displeasure, Berwald had no choice but to follow the orders the shorter man was giving. Despite this; Berwald was doing his best to intimidate the man in the only way he knew: glaring.

“Oh now that’s just adorable,” the man sniggered and tapped the barrel of the gun against his own head “You think you’re able to scare me?” The man’s laugh was cheerful; not a single drop of fear or nervousness.

“You… you’re not scared of me?” Berwald had to stop himself from pinching his own arm in disbelief; should the shorter male find such a movement a threat and plant a bullet between his eyes.

“Psht,” The other man waved his hand and grinned up at Berwald “I live with a man who can bench-press a motorbike and another one who can freeze the blood in your veins with a single glare, I’m afraid you don’t rank very high on the list of ‘scary’ things in my life,”

Berwald had to crack a small smile at the other man’s words; most likely they were a lie, but his words made the Swede a little happy. It had been too many years to count since someone had not feared him.  
“Nice to meet you, name’s Berwald,” he offered the shorter man his hand.  
“Tino,” came the reply; followed by the warm smile Berwald was pretty sure was as good as glued to the other man’s face.  
Berwald held his hand there for a little while longer; waiting for Tino to shake it.  
“Honestly; you think I’m stupid enough to shake your hand?” Tino’s smile turned into a wicked grin  
“I know exactly who you are and what you’re capable off. And it sure as hell doesn’t stop at repairing bikes,”

Berwald grunted and let his outstretched arm fall to his side, the chair was far from comfortable – but he knew bullets were even less so.

“So what do you want?”  
“A few repair jobs, that’s all,” Tino smiled  
“And if I say no?”  
“Then your lovely and immaculate garage will be a disarray of oil, tools and your own blood and body parts,”

Berwald shuddered. The constant smile and carefree tone of voice from Tino was unsettling. He now regretted even introducing himself.  
“Fine,” he mumbled, hanging his head low.  
“Fantastic! I knew you’d see my side here,”

Glaring daggers at Tino proved futile; instead Berwald resigned himself to sinking further down in the uncomfortable chair.

“Well I best be heading off. My friends and I will be back tomorrow. Take care!” Tino waved at him with a smile and disappeared out the door.  
Berwald stared after him for a few seconds; before slowly and carefully getting up from the chair,

“Oh and don’t try to run off, we will find you!” Tino singsonged as an afterthought as he stuck his head through the door, making Berwald freeze on the spot. And then Tino was once more out of view.

Berwald didn’t have time to formulate a reply before a rev of a motorbike was heard; growling to life before disappearing in the distance.


	2. Oil

Sleep was as good as impossible; but he passed out in the early hours of the morning regardless.  
When his alarm went of at seven, Berwald cursed and grumbled as he rolled out of bed and got into the shower.

Drying his hair, he checked himself in the mirror for any oil he might have missed last night.  
Thankfully the only thing he saw was his tattoo of a roaring lion on his back.

A cup of coffee and a slice of bread later, Berwald made his way down to his garage.  
He froze at the sight of a man sitting in his chair; smoking a cigarette lazily.  
“Who are you?” he questioned bitterly; the guy was blonde like the man last night was – but they were definitively not the same person.  
This one had an unreadable expression and looked positively bored out of his mind.  
“An associate of the man who so kindly convinced you to help him last nigh,” the stranger answered; stubbing his cigarette out on Berwald’s work table.

“Kindly is hardly the word I’d use,” Berwald snorted, placing his coffee cup on the work table to survey this new strangers’ motorcycle.  
“How did you even get in?” he inquired “I know I locked the door…”

A dry laugh sounded from the man as he held up a small lock pick.  
“Not exactly a hard lock to break, Berwald,” the man smirked and reached for the swede’s coffee cup.  
Berwald was too stunned to object.

He himself had ensured the lock was more than secure enough; but here sat another man who seemingly found Berwald’s security system laughable.

“Fine, so you know my name already… but what is yours?”

“Erik Sørensen,” the man replied, sipping Berwald’s coffee nonchalantly.  
“And you’re here to get your bike fixed, am I right?”  
“That is correct. Well done you for making that connection. I’ll get you your Nobel prize for intelligence sometime next week,”

Berwald frowned deeply; the man’s sarcasm was already making him grumpy. Plus; the bastard had stolen Berwald’s coffee; and he did not appreciate that whatsoever.  
Picking his lock was one thing.  
Stealing coffee was another level of terribleness all together.

“For a gang member you’re sure an early riser,” he remarked as he glanced at his clock hanging on the wall. Just a few minutes past eight.  
He concluded that Erik was clearly one weird gang member.  
“Speak for yourself; Lejon,” Erik retorted with a smirk as all colour from Berwald’s face drained at the sound of that name.  
“Ho-how do you know that name?” he’d told no one in this city of his previous life. Nor had he left any traces so anyone could find him. So how on earth could this Erik guy know that codename?

“I pride myself in being a good researcher and I have more contacts that the Norwegian embassy,” Erik explained before the last drops of Berwald’s coffee disappeared down his throat.  
“A tall, blue-eyed, blonde and Swedish motorcycle repair man? With a glare to send most folk running?” Erik rolled his eyes “You may have hidden your tracks; but you failed to hide yourself well enough to escape my radar,”

“For what it’s worth; I already hate you,” Berwald grumbled as he made his way over to Erik’s motorcycle, a gorgeous dark blue 250cc BMW R27. He resisted commenting out loud on the beauty of the bike.  
It was in a fairly good condition – and recently painted he noted – leather seat, polished rims, cracked side mirror that was cello-taped together…  
“Did you come all the way here to have your mirror repaired?” he asked in disbelief.  
“Not at all. I want a better engine. This one sadly ones goes to 110 kilometres an hour,”

“Right,” Berwald nodded. It was better not to argue with the man.  
“But that’s going to cost quite a bit, this model requires special parts. And I might even have to modify half of them myself…”

 

“Money is not an issue. You order what you need and we will ensue money is provided,”

“I’ll have you know I am on the straight and narrow now. I am not going to do anything if you try and pay your way with dirty money,”  
“Oh little lion cub,” Erik mocked “You really have us all underestimated…”  
Berwald wanted to throttle the man with a wrench and drop the bloodied and bruised body into the harbour. But the faint outline of a gun sticking out under the man’s leather jacket made him think a little more.  
Sure; Erik was smaller than him – but Berwald knew not to underestimate anyone due to size.  
And since Erik had easily broken into his garage without making a single sound, Berwald suspected trying to beat the man to pulp was going to be a lot trickier than he hoped.

“I am going to regret getting out of bed,” Berwald mumbled to himself as he set about dismantling the motorbike to figure out what parts he needed to order.

While he worked, Erik momentarily disappeared; only to return with two cups of coffee.  
Berwald didn’t even bother to ask how the man had figured out where he kept his coffee, and instead wordlessly took the cup offered to him.

Come ten o’clock; Berwald has a nice list of parts he would need to improve Erik’s bike.

Not long after he sat down to fill out a order sheet; the sound of three bikes approaching and stopping outside made him really wish he hadn’t gotten out of bed.

“Moi, Moi!” the cheerful man from last night greeted as he stepped inside; followed closely behind by a man around Berwald’s height and age and then by a younger guy Berwald though looked like a teenager.

“Fucking hell Erik, how long have you been here?” the tall guy remarked; completely ignoring Berwald’s presence as he surveyed the various motorcycle parts on the floor  
“Since about 6,” Erik replied with not so much as a glance at the taller man.  
“Told you so,” the white haired youth remarked and held his hand out to the tall man “Now pay up Preben,”

“No fair. He’s your bother. Of course you know what time he wakes up at,” Preben frowned, but complied – handing over a hundred krown bill.

“So you’re the lion from the north?” Preben finally asked  
Berwald nodded just once.

“Not a man of many words are you?”  
“Not to the likes of you,”

Preben almost keeled over with laugher at Berwald’s reply; and behind him Tino sniggered.

“That’s rich coming from you; Løve.”  
“It’s Lejon,” Berwald corrected.  
“Lejon, løve, ljón, lion, whatever,” Preben laughed, completely butchering both the Swedish and Icelandic pronunciations - making the white haired teen and Berwald wince, “No matter what you call yourself you’ll still be the same man,” Preben continued; oblivious to how Erik was rolling his eyes at him behind the Swede’s back,

“I’ve changed,” Berwald snarled, not at all liking how these men seemed to know everything about his past.

“A leopard can not change his spots,” Tino added with a wide grin. “So how can a lion change his old ways?”  
Berwald wanted to punch the shorter man’s teeth out, but refrained from doing so. It would really only prove their point he told himself.

“So who the hell are you all then?” he glanced around at the four men standing - or in Erik’s case; sitting – in his garage.  
“Preben ‘Danmark’ Kronholm. Leader of this fine little gang,” the Dane introduced himself with a wide grin, before gesturing to the others.  
“Erik ‘Norge’ Sørensen,”  
“Halldór ‘Island’ Erikson, ”  
“Tino ‘Suomi’ Väinämöinen!”

Berwald stared at them all.  
“You’ve got to be joking,” he didn’t want to believe it at all.  
These four were the feared Nordic gang?  
Preben and Tino looked incapable of committing more than a petty crime; let alone the about twenty bank hoists that the Nordics had to their name.

“Aren’t you supposed to be this cities most feared gang?” he looked each and everyone of them up and down.  
They didn’t look like the killers the media made them out to be.

“And aren’t you supposed to be the Germanic gang’s most trusted and feared member?” Preben retorted; the smile on his face not faltering a second.  
“I left that life years ago,” Berwald frowned  
“No one leaves a life like that at the drop of a hat,” Tino explained with a light shrug, seemingly not bothered at all by the Swede’s glare that was growing darker and darker by each second.

“You’d be wise to join us,” Erik commented, placing a hand on Berwald’s shoulder.  
Growling, Berwald decided he’d had enough. Spinning around he aimed his fist straight for Erik’s pretty little face.  
However, before it could connect with Erik’s rather well defined nose; the man had dodged out of the way, bend down and before Berwald could think twice he was on the floor with a switch-blade knife dangerously close to his main artery.

Preben and Tino were chanting something along the lines of ‘beat him, beat him’  
“You’ve gotten a little rusty, Lejon,” Erik coolly remarked as he pressed his knee against Berwald’s crotch.

For his own part, Berwald wasn’t quite sure what to think any more.  
He was impressed by Erik’s swift movements and combat abilities; a little scared that knife was going to get any closer than it already was.  
Not to mention embarrassed and angry at being taken down so easily, despite not having fought hand to hand in years; and maybe, just maybe a little aroused that someone had actually made such an easy defeat of him.  
(and for what it was worth, Erik’s attempt at pronouncing ‘lion’ in Swedish was actually rather spot on)

 

“Fine,” he growled, and once Erik removed the knife from his neck and stood up; Berwald slowly stood up and dusted himself off, not meeting anyone’s eyes for a moment.

“So what do you all want?”

“A few repair jobs, that’s all,” Preben explained, grinning like the idiot Berwald had decided he was.

“So I repair your bikes and you guys leave me alone?”  
“You repair our bikes whenever we need to and we leave you alone in the time between jobs,” Tino elaborated a little more helpfully.  
Berwald however; was not at all happy with this. If it was possible, his frown went even deeper and darker. None of the gang members seemed to care.

“We’ll ensure you’re paid enough to cover cost and time,” Erik reassured, lighting a cigarette and tossing the lighter to Preben; who in turn lit his own cigarette.

Blowing the smoke drifting into his vision away from his face, Berwald made his decision.

“Okay. But that’s all I’ll do. Repair the bikes. Nothing more. Do we have a deal?”  
“A deal indeed!” Preben grinned and held his hand out for Berwald to shake.

Reluctantly he did so.

As Preben gripped his hand firmly, Berwald realised that regardless of his promise; a repair job or ten…  
He was going to end up somewhere back in his old life style.


	3. Transmission

In many ways; Berwald was right.  
At first it really only had been bike repairs.  
Their bikes were a delight to work with; he couldn’t deny it.

Preben’s deep red BMW R1200C Cruiser was positively glowing. For someone Berwald disliked so intensely, he had to admit the man had an excellent taste in bikes. And weapons; but that was another thing altogether.

Even if the Dane was annoying, loud and impossible to hang out with for long periods of time; the bike brought out a smile in Berwald whenever he worked on it.  
Dismantling the engine, he took great care with each and every piece. Polishing, cleaning and replacing some parts; it was all like therapy to him.

Although he wasn’t quite sure what to feel about the fact that the youngest of the gang was constantly at his garage.

“To make sure you don’t fuck our bikes up,” was Tino’s words of reason when he had inquired why Halldór had to be there.

The young man wasn’t actually that much of a bother. He was quiet; absorbed in his own world with sketchbooks, pencils and pens.

 

“How old are you?” Berwald asked, turning to look at the teen – or at least he though Halldór was a teen.

“Why do you want to know?” Halldór frowned as he looked up from his sketchbook, one pen stuck behind his right ear and a pencil behind the other.

“You just look a little too young to be in a gang, that’s all…” Berwald shrugged

“Everyone starts somewhere,”

Berwald mulled the teens words over and went back to sanding off some rust. He himself had been around 15 when he joined his first gang – looking back it seemed too long ago.  
“I’m eighteen,” Halldór suddenly said.  
“Though as much,” was Berwald’s grumbled reply as he inspected a cylinder.

“Are you trying to be condescending?” There was an icy edge to Halldór’s tone of voice; it was no doubt who he was related to. But unlike Erik, Halldór was shorter, skinnier and a lot less capable to stand up for himself in a fight. For a moment Berwald realised he could easily smash the youth’s head in and run away.  
“Not at all,” he shrugged and reached for a spanner.

Halldór stood up from his chair, hovering behind him. Berwald gripped the metal tool tightly. It would be so easy.  
One deft move; a twirl and a punch and the kid would be bleeding and unconscious on the floor.

“I’m always impressed by people who understand engines…”

Berwald grip relaxed.  
“How so?”

“Well…” Halldór hummed and crouched down next to Berwald, nudging a bolt with his index finger.  
“It’s all so complicated and incomprehensible to me…”  
“Just takes a little practice,” Berwald chuckled and handed Halldór the spanner. The kid wasn’t bad; he didn’t have the heart to hurt him. In fact; Berwald was pretty sure he’d take a bullet for the kid if the situation arose. Which he really hoped wouldn’t.

“Nah, Erik tried to show me several times and I just don’t understand anything of it,” the teen huffed and sat down on the hard concrete floor, scratching his leg through worn jeans.

“Erik?”  
“Yeah… He’s an engineer actually,” Halldór explained and twirled the spanner around in his hand. “He’s good with engines, but not necessarily all of them. Still; he’s much better than the rest of us,”

Humming in understanding, Berwald stared at the nuts and bolts on the floor. It was tempting to build in some hidden explosive mechanism to the Dane’s bike engine.  
Half way down the road; boom! No more annoying grin.  
But he had promised himself not to have more blood on his hands.  
Annoying owner or not; it would bee too much of a loss to blow up such a pretty bike.

“What are you good at then?” He asked as he began to re-assemble the engine.  
Halldór’s cheeks took on a faint colour of pink and his gaze went towards the sketchbook next to him.

“I wouldn’t say I’m good but….” he trailed off and handed Berwald the sketchbook.  
He wiped the oil and dirt on his hands onto his jeans before taking the sketchbook from Halldór; flipping it open carefully.

“An illustrator?” he inquired and continued flipping through the pages; rather impressed by the level of detail in the various sketches, drawings and even paintings in the book.

“Tattoo artist,” Halldór corrected him with a huff.  
“My bad…” he mumbled as he stopped to admire a very intricate and gorgeous sketch of a bike he recognised as being Erik’s.  
“You’ve got a lot of talent,”

“Thanks,” Halldór mumbled faintly, drumming his fingers nervously against the concrete.  
“Erik’s the one who does really good drawings of machines… he’s the only one who supports me doing this,”

’You’re in a gang. No one supports that’ he wanted to say to the teen, but refrained. The way Halldór’s voice was filled with pride and hope was rather adorable. He didn’t want to break the boy’s heart.

“Who else are you searching approval from?” he asked instead; curious as to how much personal information he could get from him before he caught onto the fact that Berwald was perhaps digging for weaknesses.  
“Our parents,” Halldór shrugged.  
That reply threw Berwald off.

He had simply assumed no one in gangs had parents; at least not parents who still spoke to their kids…

“Do your parents know what you’re doing?” he hesitantly asked, trying to see if Halldór’s body language would give something away.

“No…” he replied, rolling his eyes.

“Right…stupid question,” Berwald berated himself and continued reassembling the engine.  
“Not really, they’re not stupid. But so far we’ve escaped appear in any newspapers or stuff like that. So for all they know Erik is still working as an engineer and I’m studying to be a tattoo artist,” Halldór grumbled something incomprehensible before continuing “So naturally Erik is still the favourite,”

Berwald snorted “Well if it counts for anything, you’re less of a dick than your brother,”  
“He gets that from his dad… Honestly,” Halldór rolled his eyes, a faint smile showing.  
“Half brothers?”

Halldór nodded “And he knows exactly what we’re doing…”  
“Really?”  
“Yeah… He’s also Preben’s father you see,”

That did explain the rather odd familiarity the two men had about them, Berwald hummed to himself and tried to think if he knew a man who had two sons in a gang and didn’t mind at all.  
Well; there couldn’t be many of those around here he concluded - not noticing Halldór starting to sketch in his book.  
Lost in thought as he continued reassembling the engine, he almost forgot Halldór was there until the teen nudged him in the side.

“Hey…what do you think?”

Halldór turned the sketchbook around for Berwald to see.  
He’d drawn a dragon-like serpent battling a griffin; the two creatures tearing one another apart.

“Preben wants a new tattoo… possibly one on his back. I though maybe this design would be cool…”

Berwald wiped some oil off on his jeans again and reached for the sketchbook, studying the drawing more closely.  
“You’ve got an eye for detail,” he commented, taking great care not to smear oil all over the little details of scales and feathers on the mythical creatures.

“Thanks…do you think it works well as black and white or should I colour it?”

“Keep it like this for now, but maybe compose some colour swatches separate as a preparation in case colour becomes an option,” Berwald handed the sketchbook back “Most of my tattoos are black and white,”

“There’s something really fun about bringing things to life with only two colours,” Halldór smiled and turned his attention back to his drawing “Colour is fun too, but I like to challenge myself a little at times,”

“You don’t improve if everything is easy, challenges make you stronger” Berwald added and returned to his own work, not minding the comfortable silence that fell between them as they both worked on their own projects.  
At one point Halldór disappeared upstairs and returned with coffee; and Berwald wondered if it was customary for the Nordic gang to simply just help themselves to everyone’s coffee without asking. Then he remembered he used to do the same.  
He loathed and missed his old life.

Missed the excitement and adrenalin.  
The companionship and people who didn’t fear him.  
Loathed the violence and dangerous situations he put himself and others in…

Well, something he also missed some of the violence.  
A good fist fight did relieve a lot of tension and pent up anger.

A stress relief for people who were too impatient for yoga.  
Berwald chuckled at his own mental ‘joke’, not paying attention to the weird look Halldór gave him.

They were both torn from their concentration by the loud knock from the garage door.

Halldór was the one to stand up and open the door, stepping briskly aside to allow his brother to enter.  
“Evening,” Erik greeted and nodded in Berwald’s direction.  
He couldn’t help but notice the dark raid stains on Erik’s brown leather gloves.

“You’ve got a blowtorch here, right?”

Berwald nodded and gestured to the back of his garage.  
“Bottom shelf. Next to the nail-gun,”

“Fantastic,” Erik was quick to remove his gloves and retrieve the small blowtorch.  
Before Berwald could really say anything; the guy had made a tiny little fire out of the leather gloves.

Halldór and Berwald watched in silence as the gloves became nothing but twisted pieces of burnt leather and then unrecognisable crispy flakes.  
They said nothing as Erik dusted up the remains and put them in the bin before joining them on the floor.

“Long day?” Halldór asked and slid the sketchbook over to Erik.  
“Just the usual idiots who think they can borrow money and then not pay it back,” Erik shrugged and flipped to the newly drawn drawing in the book, smiling faintly at the sight. “I see you’ve both been busy as well…”

Berwald grunted in reply, trying to ignore the quiet little discussion the two brothers had over Halldór’s newest work as he tried to do his own job.  
Usually he would have wished for more peace and quiet while he concentrated; but both Erik and Halldór’s voices were calm and not at all unpleasant to listen to – even if their current topic of conversation was something far from calming.

“Better get going soon,” Erik stood up, offering his hand to his brother and pulling him up.  
“Big day coming up soon,”

 

Berwald just looked at him with a confused look.

“Mind if I borrow your bathroom?”  
“Uh… sure. You know where it is…” Berwald was more confused about the fact that Erik asked instead of just taking things for granted and making himself at home.

By the time Erik came back down; Halldór had packed all his stuff up and was waiting by the door.  
“See you tomorrow,” he said and waved at Berwald before Erik dragged him outside.  
“See you…” Berwald waved back at the empty doorway.  
Honestly; these gang members, he thought to himself as he went to lock his door and clean up the garage.

Flicking off the lights and climbing the stairs, Berwald though something seemed off when he reached his kitchen. Things were in their right place; but there was an unsettling feeling that something was still not as it should be.  
“They better not have fucking drugged my coffee,” he grumbled as he got ready to call it a night.  
Munching on a slice of bread with jam he noticed a small folded up piece of paper on his kitchen table.  
Odd, he hadn’t left anything there this morning, had he?

Picking it up he noticed it was far too heavy to simply be only paper.  
And right enough; there was something inside the folds of paper.  
A bullet.

Berwald stared at it in disgust and confusion.  
The note revealed nothing.  
‘Might come in handy’ it read.

 

“Bullets no use with no gun,” he mumbled, but placed the note and bullet on his bedside table. He supposed Erik had his reasons (because that was Erik’s handwriting, he was sure of it) for the odd ‘good luck charm’.

All oil and grease removed from fingers, arms, hair and chest (one day he swore he’d figure out how he got oil there of all places) Berwald slipped under the covers.  
As his head hit his pillow he realised exactly what was wrong with his flat.  
Bolting upright he flung the pillow across the room.

A gun.  
A god damned fucking hand gun under his pillow.  
He wanted to scream – but refrained. What would the neighbours think if he did, he reasoned to himself.

Instead he removed the gun from under his pillow and placed it under his bed.

If there was one there could be two, he concluded and began searching.

And thirty minutes later he had proved himself correct; much to his own dismay.

Two daggers (one under his sofa and one on top of his bathroom cabinet), two more hand guns (one under his sofa and one in his kitchen cupboard. Next to the coffee) and six flick-knives (found in various drawers).

When gang members began hiding or giving out weapons in your home; something was going to happen soon.  
Berwald just hoped it wouldn’t mean he had to get involved beyond bike repair.


	4. Gear Shift

“Simple robbery my ass,” he grumbled as Preben grinned at him after the very brief explanation of today’s plan.  
“Relax Kitten,” Erik smirked at him, “You're just there as a look out. No fingerprints, no involvement. Just use your eyes,”

“You're just a bag full of lies,” Berwald hissed bitterly in return – not at all happy that he had been demoted to 'Kitten' in the Norwegian's nickname ranks.  
“I never lie,” Erik's smirk still present “I only tell a different truth, but maybe you're scared your eyes aren't good enough for that either these days?”

Not wanting to end up shooting the Norwegian, Berwald let it all slide.  
He'd just replace all his normal coffee with decaf and maybe pour some olive oil into the Norwegian's bike. 

Or not.  
The bike was too nice to be ruined.  
Inwardly he cursed himself for his inability to ruin beautiful bikes.  
“Rob the store, drive away, hide for a bit. Celebrate!” Tino summed up and smiled brightly. Out of all four of them, the chirpy and smiling Finn was his favourite.  
“Fine,” Berwald grumbled as he strapped the black visor helmet over his head, double checking one last time that all the license plates where covered – along with any distinguishable features of the bikes.

It was rather ingenious all in all.  
The bikes they rode where their original ones, but Erik had showed up with a lot of light plastic parts a few days ago – and with some cutting, duct-taping and painting all five bikes looked like a horrid mix and match of bike parts.  
They where unmistakably unique now – but that was the point.

“Police will be looking for the bikes, so hiding them under fake plastic bodies alters the shape and look. They'll be chasing the wrong bikers for weeks if everything goes after plan.”

Berwald had only nodded at the explanation. Erik's idea where almost outlandishly odd; but once he sat down to think them over it made perfect sense.

Motors roaring to life, Berwald just hoped the tape would hold long enough to fool any policemen watching CCTV footage afterwards.

The sinking feeling in his stomach almost disappeared when they sped out from the gang's garage. A few laps around the town to throw people off made it vanish completely.  
He was excited.

Of course, he was already hating himself for getting excited – but skidding the bike to a halt in front of the jewellery shop only made him grin behind the visor of his helmet.

He watched in fascination as the window and door to the shop was smashed to pieces by Erik and Preben, a crow bar and fire axe making short progress of the window.  
And Tino; the smiling Finn was quick to jump in with his gun.

All Berwald could do was stare in amazement at how perfectly rehearsed and co-ordinated they all where. He'd gathered by snippets of their conversation that they'd don this before, but watching how perfectly in tune they all worked, Berwald could suddenly see just how terrifyingly good they where.  
Somewhere in the distance he heard police sirens, so he hit the horn.

Erik was the first out of the store, followed suit by Halldór and Preben.  
Tino was the last – pointing the gun at the stores owner for a few seconds more as the rest revved their engines up.

Preben sped off to the south along with Tino, dust and petrol the only thing they left behind.  
Halldór went west, while Erik and Berwald where to go North.  
The police would have a harder time tracking three sets of tracks in opposite directions; but he had wanted to question why he got stuck with Erik.

Tino and Preben where to discard their fake bike parts onto a landfill, Halldór's would be in the forest and Erik and Berwald where to discard them by the northern harbour – preferably into a container that would be removed during the night if everything went by plan.

Although before he had the chance to ask; the reasons became clear. They didn't trust him fully yet.  
They didn't trust him not to just speed out of the city and never return.  
So he was stuck having to follow Erik.

Not that is was that much of a punishment.

At the speed Erik took corners, Berwald could have swore he saw some leather scrape off on the tarmac.  
The guy's control of the bike was scary; considering it weighed more than usual and had a completely different air flow across the bike's chassis then what Erik was used to.  
Even with years of experience, Berwald had to admit he was better at fixing them than riding them.

Yet, for each mile he felt more at ease. More at home.  
More free.

When the harbour was in his view, Berwald found himself grinning.  
Even when they hurriedly cut and ripped off the plastic from the bikes, he was still smiling.  
Smiling because it was thrilling and dangerous.  
And that was fun.  
“Wipe the grin from your face Løve,” Erik warned jokingly “With a smile like that police might stop us because they think you murdered someone,”  
“Fuck you, you're the one who dragged me into this,”  
“Nonsense, we handed you a key. You opened the door,”  
“For a criminal, you're awfully poetic,”  
“I read,” Erik shrugged and flashed a brief smirk in Berwald direction before flinging the lest piece of plastic from his bike into a container.

Berwald rolled his eyes and chucked a tiny piece of plastic at the back of Erik's helmet.  
“When you're done being a fucking smart ass, lets get the fuck out of here,”

“As you wish your majesty,” Erik replied coolly.

Berwald couldn't help but chuckle at Erik as he donned his normal blue and white helmet, flinging the black one into the container.  
Securing the spoils of their illegal efforts tightly and they where ready to go again.

A detour around a block or two before arriving back to the gang's 'base'; Berwald was happy to see there where no policemen around.  
He didn't want to go to jail. Jail was boring.  
“See, better than expected,” Tino greeted them in the door, an excited Preben waving a can of beer over his head in the background.  
“Even better actually,” Halldór added as turned the volume on the TV up.

“Oh...” was all Berwald could say as the CCTV footage was displayed for all the city to see.  
“Fantastic work,” Preben laughed “Even when I know that's us, I can't tell it's our bikes at all! We look so different!”

“Police are looking for five men on modern bikes and wearing all black,” the news reporter voiced over the images. “The men are armed and dangerous and the public are advised to not approach them,”

“Damn right, stay away from us big bad wolves,” Preben replied to the TV, grinning at the small blonde female presenter as if she was in the room and could actually hear him.

“So... now what?” Berwald asked as he opened a beer.  
“Wait a day or two, then sell the jewellery over to a good contact of mine,” Erik explained.  
“And who is this 'contact' you speak off?” 

“Roderich Edelstein,”

Berwald spat out his beer at the name.

“Roderick!?” he wiped his mouth with the pack of his jacket and stared.  
“But he's rich and famous!”

“And you think he got there without sleeping in a few beds and backstabbing a few people?” Tino laughed.  
“His current wife is a cousin of Tino actually,” Preben added “Very pretty girl. Feisty too. Runs in the family I think,” he winked at Tino, who only smiled knowingly in return at the Dane.

“You're all giving me a headache. Is there anyone else who is secretly a criminal in this town that I should know about or...?”

“Oh there is, but where's the fun in letting you know everything right now? You should try to guess and observe more, because a lot of them are closer than you think,”  
“One day I will strangle that cryptic bullshit out of you Erik,” Berwald glared, but it had no effect on the other blonde.  
“Relax, have more beer and just watch the city's police chase their own tails,” Tino threw him another can “Soon they'll give up and we'll plan the next break,”

“Really?” Berwald raised and eyebrow and took a seat next to him.  
“Shouldn’t we lay low for a bit longer?”  
“Not at all,” Tino grinned and nudged Berwald's arm with his elbow “Staying low won't do much good, we get this loot sold and move over to something else for a little while. We never rob the same things twice in a row you see,”

“Why not?” he wanted to keep the Finn talking, wanted to find out more. But also because Tino was rather pleasant to listen to. Preben was too loud, Halldór too shy and Erik was just too cold and uncaring. Tino was warm and friendly – even toward him, and that made Berwald oddly happy.

“Makes us harder to trace. If we only stole jewellery we'd be easier to track or predict. But with a new target every time the police have no idea who to go for next!”  
“Smart,” Berwald nodded “so what's next on the list?”

Tino's smile turned wicked.  
“Just a heist of a life time by the north docks in a month,” he grinned, and Berwald felt chills run down his spine as the other men chuckled darkly.

North harbour docks.  
The very one he's been earlier.  
Mostly known in the town as the harbour where no civilians should ever set foot.

Gun trade.  
Drug trade.  
Illegal technology.  
Stolen cars.  
Everything you wanted from the black market could be found in the north docs containers if you had the right access codes and passwords.

Even police where wary of treading too close.  
But there was an agreement: no one stole anything from the North docs.  
No one broke that unwritten rule. 

Except these idiots.  
Berwald didn't realised he'd stopped breathing until Tino leaned into his vision and waved his hand in front of his eyes.

“Oi, are you okay?”

“Yes... yes. Fine. Need a smoke,” he pressed the half drank can of beer into Halldór's hands before making his way outside.  
He stood there taking deep breaths of fresh air until he could muster to shakily light his cigarette.

This wasn't just a light robbery of some store.  
This wasn't something he could back out of half way.  
Oh no. He was swimming in the deep end of a pool with lead boots.

Even Tino's sweet face couldn't convince him this was a good idea.

They where mad.  
Brave.  
But mad.  
And Berwald realised that in the midst of their collective madness, he was being dragged alongside them – and much to his dismay; he was beginning to realise that he was starting to enjoyed this madness all over again.


	5. Greace

Despite promises to himself that he would give up smoking (because hey; he certainly wasn’t getting any younger) Berwald found himself going though a packet a day due to nerves alone.

Alcohol was his next step in becoming a washed up homeless man who’s only goal was another bottle.  
Pacing back and forth in his workshop; he desperately tried to think of a way he could get out of the whole North Docs operation.

“Scared?” Tino’s voice was soft; but Berwald could hear the smirk in his tone.  
“Not scared. Cautious,” he reasoned, pulling his black jeans up a bit and scratching his chest with oil-stained fingers.

“I think you’re scared,” Tino smirked and tapped the wall with his gun.  
“You guys are all mad,” Berwald hissed “North Docs are out of bounds. Always have been always will be,”  
“Oh but we live to break rules Berwald,”  
“Some rules should never be broken,”

“Is that what’s the cause of you quitting your old gang? Broke too many of your own rules?”

Berwald’s face went stone cold and his mood darkened significantly.  
“My past is none of your business,”  
“Of course not; but it’s Erik’s business and he’s got a lot on you,” Tino smiled innocently; like a child who had just told their parents it was the neighbour kid’s fault the window broke.

“Blackmailing me will only get you so far…” he grumbled, rubbing oil covered hands into the bottom of his grey t-shirt.  
“Blackmailing will get us very far actually; and the rest will come naturally,” Tino laughed and took a few steps back as he waved.  
“Just remember, you can’t run and you can’t hide!”

Second time, Berwald though bitterly as he hear Tino speed away on his bike.  
This was the second time Tino had gotten the better of him.

He expected it all the time from Preben and Erik.  
But Tino?  
Tino didn’t look at all like a gangster.

And that was his downfall.

Berwald wanted to hug the shorter male; he was cute… almost.  
But hiding behind a round face and that sweet smile was someone capable of the most ruthless actions. Briefly Berwald found that he wondered how many others had fallen into the same trap?

“Tough one isn’t he?”

Berwald whirled around to find Erik leaning against the door frame to the hallway leading up to his apartment.

“How long have you been here!?”  
“Long enough,” Erik chuckled, eyes wandering up and down Berwald’s body.  
“Do you just hide in my wardrobe until you deem it the right moment to appear, like some weird bogey man?”

“I’m not the one hiding in the closet,” Erik snorted and gave a brief grin.  
“I take what I want, when I want it,”

“Like a common thief,” Berwald rolled his eyes and wrung off his t-shirt, tossing it over a stool.  
“You’re not thinking very far,”

“Oh I’m thinking far enough,” Erik smiled, playing with a flick-knife in his hand Berwald hadn’t noticed before.  
“So you realise that this North Docs operation will likely be a fiasco?”  
“It won’t be a fiasco as long as you or anyone else in our little ‘family’ keep their mouth shut about it,” Erik’s tone was low and dangerous, eyes narrow as he sized Berwald up and down again.  
“Remember… you’re only good to us alive as long as we think so, don’t forget that.”

“Maybe I just don’t care for being alive?”  
“Nonesne,”  
“How do you know?”

Erik smirked as he closed the distance between them, tip of the knife hovering just below Berwald’s main artery.  
“Because you look so scared when I come near you,”  
“A natural reaction to a lunatic with a weapon,”  
“But if you truly didn’t care for life you wouldn’t find me so frightening. You’d find each and every one of us liberating. You’d push out buttons. You’d make us kill you. And you are doing none of those things, now are you?”

“Maybe I’m waiting for the right time?”  
“Or maybe I’m right and you’re a terrible liar?” Erik laughed darkly.

“Hell…I could even do this,” with a swift movement Erik had the knife pressed against his own throat, the smile still present.

“What the…”

“You can kill me now. So easily. Even a kitten like you can do it. One little move and I’m gone,”

Berwald swallowed and watched the reflection of Erik’s veins in the blade.

“But you won’t, will you? Even with no witness… no way you’d loose, you still can not do it,”  
“I’m not a cold blooded killer,” Berwald grumbled and looked away.

“Of course. A little kitten like you can’t do more then meow and hope bigger and stronger creatures take pity on you,”

“I’m getting real fucking tired of your really shitty similes,”

“It’s just a figure of speech, Berwald,” Erik chuckled, flicking the knife back and forth in his hand before pocketing it.

“Very annoying,”  
“You stop mumbling and I’ll stop being cryptic,”  
“I don’t think you’re able,”  
“Time will tell now won’t it?”

Berwald grumbled some curses under his breath at the Norwegian and reached for his shirt; flinging it at Erik before he could fully understand what was going on.

“What th-”

He was cut off as Berwald tackled him to the hard floor.

Breath knocked out of him and his head pounding as he hit the concrete.

“Didn’t predict that one did you?” Berwald sneered as he pinned him down,  
“No…” Erik grumbled reluctantly “I did not,”

There was a slight smug satisfactory grin on the swede’s face, and Erik decided he had to do something about that.

“Don’t even try to move,” Berwald warned  
“Or what? You going to kill me?”  
“Maybe,”

Erik snorted, but remained motionless.  
“Sure you are, then get it over with will you. You’re heavy,”  
“Where’s the fun in killing you slowly?” Berwald leaned down, it had been a while since he’d physically hurt anyone (much). But like riding a bike; you never quite forgot how to do it.  
“Torture? Oh my, I should have pegged you as one of those guys earlier then had I known,” Erik chuckled.

“You’re awfully calm…”  
“Got nothing to loose, simple as that,” Erik shrugged half heartedly.

“Nothing? I don’t believe you… What about Halldór?”  
“He’s got his art, his other side of the family… Don’t think for a second I’d have him around if I wasn’t prepared to loose him,”

Berwald stared at Erik, trying to find a trace of a lie in the man’s body language; but there was nothing. For all of his skills at reading others; Erik seemed to be completely serious.

That scared him more than anything.

“You’re the worst out of them all,” he sneered before letting Erik go.

“I prefer the term ‘resourceful and adaptive’,” Erik smirked as he slowly got up from the floor, dusting himself off and straightening his t-shirt.  
“In league with Satan himself I’d say,”  
“Your opinion of me is rather irrelevant. Although for your little tackle stunt alone I should cut of your tongue… not like you use it much anyway,”

Berwald swallowed nervously; Erik meant business about his threat.  
Erik meant business about everything.

“However; can’t have you drown in your own blood here and now, so I’ll let it slide this time,”

“How nice of you,” Berwald mumbled, keeping a keen eye one the other man’s hands. He’d seen Erik produce knifes seemingly from thin air – he only trusted him as far as he could throw him. Maybe less.

 

“I shall see you tomorrow. I think you’ve been threatened enough today,” Erik chuckled darkly, his evil smirk looking even more devious than ever.

“And remember; you can run, but you will never hide from all my eyes and ears.”

Berwald just glared at the back of Erik’s head as he walked out of the garage.  
Running was not an option. He had run away before and it had not been enough.

It seemed like life had a habit of steering him back into the same paths again and again.


End file.
